v i g i l a n c e

Vigilance
[by victoria p.]

Rating: G

Summary: "Boromir worries about the little ones."

Notes: Thanks to Jen, Melissa-n-Pete, Dot, and Meg. Written for hossgal for Project Ficlet. She gave me these words: "shards, leeward, frostblight," which I took to mean, "Write some damn LotR fic." *g*

Thanks also to the people who commented, who helped make this a better story.

Date: October 29, 2003

Boromir worries about the little ones.

They remind him, in their frolics and jests, of himself and Faramir, before their mother died, before the mantle of responsibility and solemnity fell upon them. Frodo, especially, carries a grave air about him similar to Faramir's, and it touches Boromir in ways he did not expect. Pippin rouses protective, almost fatherly instincts.

The burden on his shoulders grows, now encompassing the halflings and their green and growing Shire, in addition to Gondor and her soaring white towers.

He knows crossing Caradhras in the winter is foolhardy at best, but Gandalf and Aragorn have chosen their path and he will not sow discord in the Company; that is the work of the Enemy. He keeps a weather eye on the halflings, always making sure they are on the leeward side as the winds whip across the mountains, stinging faces and fingers.

He wakes early each morning and breaks the thin sheet of ice glazing the hobbits into bright shards like teeth, ready to snag and tear at tender flesh.

Each night he builds a fire, against the others' wishes, big enough to warm fingers and toes, to bring rosy color into blue lips and cheeks, but too tiny to be seen from afar when hidden by his shield or nearby boulders. He is on the watch always for signs of frostblight on small fingers and noses; he listens for snuffling and coughing, signs of impending illness. His gaze falls on the Ring with regularity, but he wills his eyes and thoughts away from it.

Aragorn catches his eye with a smile that never reaches his lips, and he feels foolish for worrying about such mundane matters when there is ever-greater danger besetting them. But their quest cannot be successful if they sicken and die from the cold. He readies this argument, prepares to hide the measure of his care, but no one ever questions him, and the smiles and ease the hobbits show toward him now are thanks enough.

He holds the Ring once, gold glinting innocently in the bright sun, reflecting off the snow. It calls his name, and for a moment, he is suffused with hatred for Frodo. But his will is strong, and he hands it back, pretending not to notice Aragorn's hand upon the hilt of his sword.

His relief at their change of route is short-lived. Moria is no place for Men or Hobbits. In the never-ceasing dark, his thoughts turn often to the Ring, its whispers louder with no sun to drive the shadow away.

He admires the fallen splendor of the Dwarrowdelf, but he wishes ever for the open plains of Rohan and Gondor, sweet grass at his feet and the wind in his hair and the salt tang of the sea in the air when the breeze is from the south.

He has breathed his fill of the foul underground air and bitterly regrets Frodo's choice, even as he restrains him as Gandalf falls and all is nearly lost. He carries Frodo when the halfling cannot bring himself to move, pleads with Aragorn to let Merry and Pippin mourn, though he knows well that they will be besieged by orc come nightfall.

Boromir worries about the little ones. He can protect them from cold and from orcs, from cave troll and the tentacled watcher in the water.

But he begins to wonder, as they enter the woods of Lothlórien, if he will be able to protect them from himself.

end

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Disclaimer: All LotR characters belong JRR Tolkien and his estate, New Line Cinema, etc. This piece of fan-written fiction intends no infringement on any copyrights.